In the Thaw
by Savae
Summary: [Post-game / Squall-centric / Oneshot] It is the hour when the sun first kisses the ground that he feels most content. And so, he runs.


_**Author's Note:** This story actually comes deep from the heart for me; it is an expression of grief and acceptance, and trying to find your way in the aftermath. I guess it is a little personal, but still, I hope you all like it! It's quite a bit different from Like Knives (which I am also working fervently on; a new chapter will be posted shortly)._

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**In the Thaw**

It is the hour when the sun first kisses the ground that he feels most content. Frost caresses the grass as a low fog hangs in the air, erasing the world of yesterday and giving light to new. It is October now, summer long since collapsed as autumn reigns in its place. He does not mind, for it is the slight chill the wind delivers to his face, the shape his breath takes as it exits his lips, and the vague feeling of something wild that he can't quite pinpoint, that lets him know he is indeed alive.

His feet hit the cobblestone streets at a pace that is bordering on the edge of something feral, blood rushing through his veins as he loses himself. The cold evaporates from his body as the sweat begins to form and in this moment he is everything and nothing all at once.

Grief. It has stricken him so greatly and so darkly in these last few months, and he knows in his heart that he cannot run forever. But if he focuses hard enough, he can almost force the demons from his mind, the ones that haunt him whenever his eyelids draw shut and exchange his dreams for nightmares. So he pushes himself, as hard and as far as his body will allow before his knees start to ache and his lungs cannot force anymore air into him.

_And he sees her smiling face even though there are tears in her eyes and he is confused and she says she loves him and she says she's sorry and she says—_

He runs down the path his mother used to take when she would pick wildflowers with his sister. There are no flowers at this time of the year, only decay, but he finds it suiting and chalks it up to fate. His feet are barely a whisper against the soundlessness as he treads through a place that should have held memories for him. Again, he decides that fate is to blame.

There is no hypocrisy here. The path says nothing. The road does not judge him. The sun rises not in metaphors but rather in perfect math, spilling into the small village and bearing its light for all those who will have it. Its warmth is not what it was in August, but he still welcomes it as it makes a home on his skin and gently reminds him that it is and there is and he _is_.

He is hypocrisy.

He is the embodiment of everything that should not be. The people of this village know that, but they do not say anything. He isn't quite sure if it is out of respect for his mother or distaste for his father, but he hasn't allotted himself much time to ponder it. To him, it is irrelevant. He is not the sum of those who created him; of that, he is certain.

And then that nagging question creeps up on him again, as it so often does, and he tries his best to ignore it, but it is too persistent. He always thought he knew the answer when he was with her, but now she is gone, and he realizes that he doesn't know the answer anymore, and wonders if he ever really did.

_She is screaming and it sounds like a thousand voices all at once and she is possessed again and he panics and he wonders what he is supposed to do and he is caught between duty and discipline and she cries out his name before he is banished from her recognition—_

The morning does not ask questions. His pace has slowed but he refuses to stop, because if he stops then the world will catch up to him again and everything will become real. He does not want the reality he has chosen for himself. He wishes he could go back in time and fix everything, but if anyone knows the impossibility of change, it is him.

As he turns onto another trail, his foot steps onto what must be the first ice of the year and his balance stutters, but he regains it quickly and carries on. A sick realization comes into his mind that this is the cycle he has been repeating for as long as he can remember: run, stumble, repeat indefinitely. He wonders morbidly if he will ever have the strength to break through the only constant in his life and tries to imagine what it would feel like.

People back home think he is a hero and regard him as such, but when he looks at himself in the mirror, the only person he sees is a fool. He blames it not on fate this time, but on himself. All he wants is to be anonymous, just for once; to lose his identity—whatever that may be—and become someone else. His skin feels ordinary enough.

The wind does not speak to him. He welcomes the silence, the solitude. Too many times have his friends tried to comfort him with words, and too many times has he grown tired of their redundancy. Now, he lets no one stand in his way, and he tells himself that this is what he has always preferred, anyways. Because alone, he is in his element. Alone, he does not have to answer. Alone, he _is_.

_She sets the world on fire and her body writhes with power that defies all logic as her mind screams to him, begging him to keep her anchored in reality, telling him that she is losing her battle and that she cannot hold on anymore, and he is, for once, scared—_

Sometimes, the loneliness is overwhelming. He misses the feeling of waking up next to her warmth, the sound of her voice when she says his name, the way she feels wrapped around him, her smile, her laughter. And then he misses the little things, like the way she always eats popcorn one kernel at a time, or the way she spreads her toes apart when he rubs her feet, or the way she wrinkles her nose when she is annoyed with him.

He passes the knoll he is all too familiar with and finds that his eyes are drawn to its peak. He knows what is up there, embedded in the stone marker. A flash streaks through his head that reminds him every woman that ever should have been in his life has become naught. Frantically, he pushes the notion aside and brings his concentration back onto the steps directly ahead of him. He remembers to breathe, keeps it in rhythm, in through the nose and out through the mouth.

His feet come off the trail and hit the cobblestone once more, footsteps echoing through the empty streets. There is stillness all around him; the murder of crows that has made its home in trees nearby still lies dormant. He allows himself the briefest of moments to just feel, to ground himself, and in his head, he repeats that same damning phrase over and over: no one can predict the future.

Her words. His mantra.

And still, he runs.

_She is no longer herself but rather that of someone reborn and baptized by wrath and she flies on the wings of unbridled fury and she is raw and somehow still beautiful and he knows what he must do now and he thinks he is going to vomit just thinking about it—_

He is gasping for breath now and his muscles feel acidic.

_She does not know his name anymore and he tries to reach for their connection only to discover that it has been severed—_

The sun rises further still and he pushes on.

_He asks, no, begs his father to help him and for the first time in his life he realizes that his father is more complex, more compassionate, more understanding than he ever game him credit for—_

Inhale, exhale.

_They seal her away in a tomb that he does not break this time and for a moment he thinks he sees a semblance of her in that wilderness gaze and he knows that this is for the best and tells himself so over and over again but still his heart aches and longs for her and everything feels so absolute and so wrong—_

He stops. His breathing is ragged and every fibre of himself hurts. The grass starts to shed its frost as the wind loses its bite. The fog breaks apart in a strange mix of agony and liberation. Looking up to the amber sky, he wonders if he will ever find happiness beyond the morning, if he will ever discover himself again. That question is still lingering in the back of his thoughts and he still does not have an answer.

_Who do you want to be?_

He does not know anything beyond here, beyond now, and he wonders as the sun bears down on him, what will be revealed in the thaw.


End file.
